


AD 2016

by Basingstoke



Series: Waters of Life and Death [14]
Category: Highlander (1986 1991 1994 2000 2007), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-21
Updated: 2003-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:12:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Note on tarot: I am a rank amateur, which is why this isn't in the story proper and won't be posted to my site. I wrote this out as a way to focus my thoughts on Cassandra and the story in general.</p><p>The tarot reading I was envisioning was the basic Celtic cross. Hannah saw the central crossed cards and the outcome card. Death, representing the current problem: Methos, not just in his guise as death on a horse but also as the necessity and inevitability of change. It crosses the Chariot, which is in the position of Cassandra's situation and represents Cassandra's struggle with herself. The Chariot is head vs heart, law vs instinct.</p><p>In the distant past position was the Ten of Swords: terrible pain, despair; losing her family and her entire sense of what the world was. In the recent past was the King of Swords: Duncan. A controlled man, a lawful man, someone fair and balanced, like a judge. This combines with the Chariot to show the guiding effect he had on her in the recent (well, recent for Immortals) past when he asked her not to kill Methos. Crowning position is the Hermit reversed, showing Cassandra's isolation in Donan Woods. She's been apart from people--to her detriment--for a very long time. Near future is the Five of Wands--conflict and the need to assert oneself. The suit ties this to Hannah, appropriately, since she's the catalyst for the upcoming conflict.</p><p>The previous cards are arrayed in a circle, showing the intertwined knot of the problem. The following are arrayed in a line, separately, a masculine (swordlike!) array showing a more linear approach to the same question.</p><p>Questioner position, representing the way Cassandra sees herself: the Queen of Swords, a strong-willed, intelligent, perceptive woman. Influences and family position: the Page of Wands. This is Hannah, a young person filled with new hope and opportunity. Hopes and fears position: The Devil, the card of evil, representing the Horsemen and all that entails. Cassandra is terrified that the past is *not* dead. But then the result card, showing the possible culmination of the situation, is the Ace of Swords, representing triumph over adversity. It shows that she *can* break free and start a new life.</p><p>Overall this is a very hopeful layout, full of change and rebirth, though it has a backdrop of pain and fear. Swords, appropriately for Highlander, is the suit that generally deals with trauma and recovery--the thousand cuts of life.</p></blockquote>





	AD 2016

"I haven't been to New York since... oh, it must be 1890. Changed a bit," Methos said.

"Two draft," Duncan told the barman. "How on earth do you manage to avoid one of the biggest cities on the planet for an entire century?" he asked Methos in a low voice.

"We're not all such frequent flyers. There are people who live their entire lives without ever seeing it once."

"Mortals."

Methos shrugged. "Besides, this is your cousin's turf, and he gives me the willies."

"We're not wolves, we don't have territories--" Duncan was interrupted by the beer. "You've met?" he said closer to Methos' ear.

Methos' mouth quirked. "I mentioned that I haven't been here since 1890, right?"

"Aha," Duncan said, picturing his prickly cousin and his prickly lover in the same room without a buffer. "He challenged you, so *you* ran away."

"Damned right I did. Which is how I'm able to enjoy this rather foul drink here today," Methos said, brushing his hand across his throat. "MacLeod, are you sure this is your favorite bar?"

Duncan took a drink from his own glass and grimaced at the watered-down taste. "No, it's Connor's favorite, and I have no idea why."

Methos looked down at his drink. His face was pinching up, eyebrows and mouth drawing in, making it obvious to Duncan that he had something on his mind. And because he was Methos and he had a reputation to maintain, he was going to make MacLeod drag it out of him.

But he always talked. "Got something to say? About Connor, maybe?"

"Not a word." Methos' face said otherwise.

Duncan shoved him with his shoulder. "So what did you fight about?"

"Boats," Methos said, wrinkling his nose.

"Boats?"

"He loves them, I hate them. It was a party, we had a mutual friend, I couldn't find the door in time, and then he got me drunk on good Scotch whisky and we argued about boats." Methos tossed his head back and drained his glass. "He challenged me and then passed out, dead drunk, as soon as he stood up. I left the party, sobered up, realized that the greatest swordsman in the known world was after my pretty little head, and took the first train out of the city."

Duncan blinked. "Well, I'm sure he's forgotten about it by now."

"Now that I think about it, maybe I should be going. I hear Indonesia is nice this time of year. Or Siberia--" Methos stepped off the bar stool and looked toward the door. Duncan grabbed him.

"Shut up," Duncan said. "You're not going anywhere. You're staying right here while I find the damned bathroom."

Methos frowned at him magnificently. It was really impressive; he got his shoulders into it, and even his hips somehow. "If I die before you return... I want to be stuffed and hung over the mantle."

Duncan shook his head. He cupped Methos' face in his hands and kissed him.

"Thanks so much," Methos muttered. "Now if the Immortals don't get me, the homophobes will."

*

But Methos was still there when Duncan emerged from the bathroom. There was a different drink in his hand--something dark. Duncan took a sniff when he slid back in next to the man.

"Rum and Coke," Methos said. "The Coke is flat. Your cousin is mad."

"Maybe. The older you are, the weirder you get, right?"

Methos narrowed his eyes at him again--but turned to the door as Presence swept over them. Duncan raised his hand and Connor nodded.

"Once more into the breach," Methos muttered, barely audible.

"Shush."

Connor reached them and looked them both up and down. "Duncan. You're looking well." He eyed Methos sidelong as he thumped Duncan's arm.

"You too. Connor, this is--at the moment, this is Peter Verity."

Methos offered his hand and Connor's eyes flickered down to his sleeve. "Haven't we met before?" Connor asked.

"Victor Adams. Lady Penelope's salon." Methos sounded steady, but there was wariness in the set of his body. He didn't sit up quite that straight when he was at ease.

Connor tilted his head and a smile slid across his lips. "You don't like ships," he said, and shook Methos' hand.

"Can't stand them."

"You like my cousin." Connor was standing very close between them, eyes on Methos' face.

Methos picked up his drink. "He's infrequently waterborne."

Connor laughed and threw his arms around both of them, sloshing Methos' drink onto MacLeod's sleeve. "Drinks are on me!" he said.

*

Methos was slung across the booth in a manner that looked excruciating, but that he'd kept up quite happily for the past hour and a half: his feet on Connor's bench, his spine curled like a prawn next to Duncan, his drink trapped on his chest between his folded hands. "Nora," he said, "her name was Nora. I had to tell her about Immortality on the train out of town--she wouldn't accept any other reason for abandoning her rosebushes."

"Did you think I would come after your wife?" Connor asked, brows lowered like thunder.

"No. You're a MacLeod." Methos smiled at that. "But I loved her, and I was too selfish to leave her."

Connor nodded and held up his glass. "To fine women."

"To fine women," Duncan and Methos echoed, and all three clinked their glasses together and drank.

"Do you wish any of them were Immortal?" Duncan asked him.

"Oh..." Methos swirled his drink. "Maria would have made a very strong Immortal. She traveled down the Amazon with me after that business with the Moor in Paris--that was 1843. She was never afraid of anything. She used to ask *me* why I was so worried all the time."

"Ana was like that," Duncan said, remembering tight black curls and her lone, fierce eye. "She made her living by the sword, 1652. She thought I was a wimp for avoiding highwaymen rather than riding right up to their nests with a knife in my teeth."

"Reckless," Methos said.

"I suppose." They'd fought back to back on the deck of the ship as they traveled from Venice to Constantinople. But in the end--"She died in that tangle with the pirates."

"Pirates? You never told me about any pirates," Connor said.

"Probably not." He paused; maybe he shouldn't have brought this up. It wasn't one of his better adventures. "We were sailing from Venice. We were attacked by Turkish pirates near Sicily. Most of the crew died. I was taken prisoner and sold into slavery."

Connor leaned back. Methos looked up at him. "That doesn't seem like you," Methos said.

"If I'd killed myself on the ship, they would just have thrown me overboard in the middle of the Mediterranean. Then between the boat and the block there wasn't time. Luckily, Hamza got me out of it." Duncan took a drink--the memory still gave him the shivers. Anything could have happened to him. "It was just bad luck to get caught--don't even tell me you've never had a taste of that," he said to Methos.

"Wouldn't dream of it. 225 BC or thereabouts--the Romans were up in Gaul beating down the locals. Me and--" Methos hesitated. He didn't speak the name *Kronos,* but Duncan heard it loud and clear. "My companion at the time--we attacked them on general principles and got our horses cut out from under us. They sent us back to Rome on the prisoner cart; they loved watching northern barbarians fight."

"*You* were a gladiator?" Duncan laughed.

"Oh, no. I bit out my own tongue and got dumped by the side of the road somewhere in Liguria. But my companion wasn't quite as--mad, I suppose--and he was taken all the way to Rome, where he acquitted himself quite well in the ring."

Duncan looked down at his glass. "I bet he did."

"He was almost upset when I broke him out. He said he'd never had so much fun in a city in his life. First time he'd seen Rome, you know." Methos really didn't know when to shut up.

"You're older than you look," Connor said, watching Methos intently.

"So I'm told," Methos said. They still hadn't let Connor in on who Methos really was. It was Methos' choice, as it had been with everyone but Joe.

"Did you know my teacher? He was as old."

"Juan Sanchez Villa Lobos Ramirez--though of course he wasn't called that at the time. Tak-Ne, I think. Met him in Egypt." Methos smiled. "He was horrified. All that hair--and I think I was still playing about with woad then, so it was blue. And my bearskin cloak that I refused to part with even in the desert--God only knows what it smelled like. But Egypt was a bit of a mess then, and he was looking to travel north, so he overlooked my barbarity and we worked out a trade. I taught him Gallic and he updated my Egyptian."

"Hm," Connor said.

*

Duncan looked from one to the other and stood. "Refills," he said.

Verity shifted himself, about to move, and Connor laid his hand on his ankle, under the table. Verity glanced at him and told Duncan, "More of the same."

"Whisky," Connor said. He met Verity's eyes as Duncan left the table. "Ramirez told me about you--that there were men in this world older than I could imagine. That in comparison, I was a child." Ramirez had over two thousand years when he died, and *he* spoke of the ancient ones with awe.

"You're no child." Verity's face was smooth and young, a mask over the centuries that lay beneath. "Nor is Duncan," Verity said.

Connor had a healthy respect for mysteries--in books. He had lived too long and seen too much to be awed by a man alone. "I know you're not Tjanefer of Troy--he was my teacher's teacher. Are you Aganesthes of Tiryns? Or Harmas, the Hill-Dweller? Or Methos, the oldest?"

Verity shook his head slowly. "All those men are dead. Tjanefer at the hand of Haresh Clay, Aganesthes long ago by two barbarians without honor. Methos was killed in Seacouver twenty years ago after he lay down his sword and told us to love one another. And Harmas... did you not know that Duncan took his head?"

Connor leaned forward. "When?"

"Before he knew what Immortals were. Before he met you. Harmas wanted to lose his head to a hero, and he chose Duncan. Duncan still doesn't know who the man was."

"You've not told him?"

"He's never asked." Verity shrugged, looking slightly amused, and set his empty glass on the table. "You've never heard my name, because I change it every lifetime. I was Yahurum Snake-Bearer; now I'm Peter Verity, coin collector and lover of Duncan MacLeod."

He was not awed. But he understood the threat that lay in those long arms and behind those sharp eyes. "Duncan is all the family I have in the world," he said, threatening in return.

"And I." A flash of sadness crossed the man's face. "I've had my sword to his neck, and he to mine, and we both still stand. If he dies, it won't be by my hand--and I will chase his murderer to the ends of the earth." Verity's face froze into purest steel as he held Connor's eyes.

Connor nodded. "Then we understand each other, aye." He offered his hand. Verity shook it, then shifted his grip into a warrior's handclasp.

*

Duncan woke up in the best possible way: with his naked lover curled around him. Methos was casually draped over his back, arm enfolded with his, thigh between his thighs. And drooling on the nape of his neck, but Duncan was prepared to ignore that, provided Methos didn't wake up snarky.

He slid out from under Methos and visited the bathroom. Returning he paused, leaning on the wall, and admired the curve and angle of Methos' arm. Careless and graceful, like a tree branch in winter. Natural and unrefined. There was a scar just above his elbow, a tiny pink line; his nails were ragged and ink-stained and had probably been that way for the past five thousand years.

Duncan smiled and slipped back into bed. "Early," Methos muttered into the pillow.

"Jet lag," Duncan replied, and kissed his neck. Methos shivered and pulled away. He crawled out of bed, weaving on his feet, and staggered into the bathroom.

After a few minutes, Duncan heard the shower start. "Hmf."

He joined him. The room was already filling with steam; Methos liked his showers brutally hot. Methos was leaning against his hands on the wall, letting the water pound the top of his head.

Duncan ran his hand up his spine and watched him shiver. Methos turned and kissed him, tasteless from the water covering his lips, and Duncan slowly knelt, letting his mouth trail down Methos' slick body.

The holes on either side of the man's penis were endlessly fascinating to his tongue. Methos shifted, clasping his hands behind his neck, swaying like a snake in response to Duncan. His eyes were closed and his expression sleepy, still.

The water sheeted down Methos' back onto Duncan's hands, confusing his skin with warmth and movement. He could taste the salt of Methos' cock on his tongue, but the water robbed him of scent. It was an unusually focused experience.

Methos leaned backwards and mumbled "Maybe you *are* a boat..."

Duncan slid Methos' cock out of his mouth with a pop. "What?"

Methos' eyes opened. "What?"

"What did you say?"

"I have no bloody idea," Methos said, his hips twitching toward Duncan.

Duncan halted him with a hand on his hip. "I just wanted to see if it was important."

"Nothing on the *planet* could possibly be that important." Methos slid his hands down his chest, hot-eyed and quivering.

"If you're sure," Duncan said, darting his head forward and licking the tip of Methos' cock. Methos groaned, took Duncan's head in both hands and shoved his cock back into Duncan's mouth. Duncan would have laughed if he weren't fully occupied; instead, he bobbed his head in time with Methos' urgent tugs on his hair.

Methos came with a sigh and sagged to his knees. "Bastard," he said, "I was *asleep* still."

Duncan kissed him. "Good morning."

*

"Pequot is up," Methos said. He was lying on his stomach, towel wrapped around his waist, reading the business page.

"Really."

"Told you so." He waved his feet triumphantly, nearly kicking Duncan in the head. Duncan rolled his eyes and finished his toast.

"You really ought to learn to follow my nose," Methos continued. "Billionaire, me."

"Compound interest, you. And I can hardly avoid following your nose, now can I?" He would have tweaked his nose if he could reach it; instead, he kneed Methos in the side.

"Compound interest and *wise investments* and I can't believe you would stoop so low."

"You're pretty tall; I don't have to stoop far," Duncan observed.

Methos took a breath to speak--but stopped, narrowing his eyes at Duncan. "Point, set and match," Duncan said.

"We'll see about *that*"--and Methos crawled into his lap, fingers creeping up under his bathrobe, tongue caught between his teeth.

Then, of course, the phone rang. The hotel phone, not his mobile, so it wasn't Connor. "Don't answer," Methos said, punctuating it with a comma traced into Duncan's thigh.

Oh, he was tempted--but there were a hundred reasons that phone could be ringing, and more than a few were important. "I have to," Duncan sighed, and picked up the phone. Methos sprawled over his legs with a theatrical sigh. "Hello?"

"Duncan. I thought that was you."

A chill rolled through his stomach. He flattened his hand on Methos' back. "Cassandra."

Methos stiffened under his hand and pulled away. "I need your help," Cassandra said.

"It's it's something I can do, I will."

"Can do?" A sharp edge of offense leapt into her voice. "What would *I* want of you that you could not do? Do you think I'm chasing your lover? Do you think I would bother with that trash? No. It's something you *can* do."

Things would never be easy between them again. She was right--that's what he had been thinking. "I'm sorry," he said.

Cassandra took a deep breath and let it out audibly. "I have a student," she said. "I've taught her everything I can; I've hired the best sword instructors I could find. But all they can teach her is how to fight like a mortal, and she needs to learn how to fight like an immortal. And you're the best. The Champion, with all that entails."

"That's not--" She was wrong about that--it had nothing to do with his fighting skills--but he didn't want to talk about Ahriman, so he dropped it. Methos was kneeling beside him, now, with disquiet showing on his face. Duncan caught his hand and pressed it to his heart. "How much time are we talking about?"

"How much do you have?"

He glanced at Methos. "I'll have to check. Can I meet you--?"

"One o'clock. The Thai restaurant across the street from your hotel. And leave Methos behind," she said, that edge creeping into her voice again.

"All right. I'll see you then." Duncan broke the connection and looked at Methos. "She wants me to help train a student. She's not after you."

"Unless of course she's drawing you away so she can get a clear shot at me." Methos sat beside him, hip to hip.

Duncan made a face. The man was being ridiculous. "There are easier ways of doing that--for one thing, her Voice works on me. She could just tell me to sit down and shut up while she shot you and took your head."

Methos looked dubious--but shrugged, conceding the simple truth of it.

"I really don't think she's hunting you. I think she hates your guts--"

"Justifiably."

"--and she's none too pleased with me, either, but I don't think we're in danger."

"You're a trusting soul, MacLeod." Methos rubbed his thumb across the back of Duncan's hand.

Duncan leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Good judge of character."

"Mm." Methos looked down at their hands. "You're meeting her today?"

"Yes."

"Guess I'll go trade scurrilous rumors with your cousin, then," Methos said as he slid out of bed.

*

Cassandra stepped out of the cab first. Her head was bald as an egg, in that way that was so striking and so fashionable this decade. As always her beauty amazed him--he could never quite remember, from time to time, how lovely she really was.

She was accompanied by a girlish young woman with long, black hair and the awkwardly bulky coat that gave away all new Immortals. It took a little time to learn how to hide a sword properly.

"That's her," Methos told Connor over the phone. "The bald one."

"*Her*? You think Duncan could be in any danger from her?"

Methos rolled his eyes. "MacLeods, you're all alike. You can be betrayed by a woman as fatally as a man."

"Aye, I suppose." He didn't sound convinced.

Cassandra entered the restaurant where MacLeod was waiting. After five minutes, Methos felt conspicuous, so he joined Connor on the roof.

Connor and his sniper rifle were concealed in the shadows of the ledges and pipes. "So," Connor asked, not looking up from the sight, "what's the story here?"

Methos settled in with his binoculars. He could clearly see MacLeod and both women at a front table, talking apparently amicably. "Between Mac and Cassandra, you mean?"

"For starters."

"Boy meets 3,000 year old witch, witch haunts boy in the form of a wolf, boy grows up to fulfill an ancient prophecy by killing the witch's student. Witch later loses faith in boy. Boy tries desperately to regain witch's trust by helping out her student. Oldest story in the book."

"Heh." It was almost a laugh. Methos supposed that was the best he could do. "Where do you fit in?"

"What makes you think I have a part in this?"

"You're up here, not down there," Connor said.

"Mm, well." Methos watched Duncan's body language, then scanned the rest of the cafe. "We have a history, she and I, in which I haven't always been the gentleman I am today."

Connor was perfectly still for a moment; Methos couldn't even hear him breathe. "Perhaps," he said finally, "I should point this gun at you. For the lady's honor."

Methos let the binoculars slip and remembered--for an instant--the visions of the pool. Visions that showed him exactly what he was, with all the horror that entailed. "Highlander--I've paid more than you can imagine for my crimes."

"Ah," said Connor.

"It was a long time ago." Methos raised the binoculars again and watched MacLeod smile at the pretty girl. "Duncan knows--so I suppose he's forgiven me."

He heard Connor shift against the insulating paper of the roof, then *heh* quietly to himself. "If he forgives you, then you're forgiven?"

Methos made a noncommittal noise. He was still working that one out.

"Duncan has such interesting friends."

*

Cassandra's student was pretty, very young, and very grave. "I want to be a warrior," she told Duncan, her voice low and womanly. "I want to be equal to any battle."

"I taught her the Voice, but she isn't strong yet," Cassandra said. Her gaze was intense, her eyes pained with memory.

She hadn't forgiven him. For stopping her vengeance, for having bad taste in friends. For having doubts. For having evil in his own heart that made it impossible to see things in black and white.

But she trusted him with her student. He only wished he knew what that meant.

Duncan turned to the girl. "Immortals arise all over the world. They fight in every style--and in some styles that are long dead. To meet this challenge you have to be flexible; you have to be willing to learn in any situation, from any teacher you encounter, no matter how unlikely they may seem, because they all have something to offer. And you have to remember that you're never finished learning. You'll never be the best, because luck and destiny will always win in the end." He swallowed hard, thinking of Richie, crossed by both luck and destiny as they manifested in his own hand.

But the girl nodded, sincere and intent and ready.

"Meet me tomorrow and we'll begin," Duncan said.

*

Methos was hovering. "Stay or go," Duncan said, a little muffled by his position. He was doing the more undignified stretches ahead of time. Student or no, he didn't like looking ridiculous in front of a lady.

Methos walked around him, probably ogling his arse while it stuck up in the air, then bent over straight-legged with his folded elbows on the ground and smiled at Duncan between his legs. The man didn't bother with the martial arts training that Duncan did, but meditated and practiced yoga; he was irritatingly flexible.

Strike that. Deliciously flexible.

"I'm curious to see Cassandra's protege," Methos said. "I'm also curious as to what you're going to teach her."

Duncan stretched his arms out further. "Methos the cat."

"If you kill me, you'll stain Connor's floors." Methos straightened up into a handstand, then hand-walked toward the door. He tumbled gracefully back onto his feet as Presence hummed over them both.

Duncan straightened up. Methos tucked himself into the corner. Cassandra's student knocked, then let herself in.

She was dressed in loose black pants and a tight red shirt and she held her sword under her left arm, disguised by her long African coat. She glanced around until she saw Methos. "Hannah Jolson," Duncan said, "this is Peter Verity. My lover."

Methos peeled himself out of the corner, coat trailing from his left hand. "Good to meet you," he said.

Hannah offered her hand. "I'm always pleased to meet one of our kind with swords sheathed," she said. Methos shook her hand; his expression was neutral, probably meaning he was trying to figure her out. "Do you know my teacher?" she asked.

Methos straightened up, face blank as a new wax candle. "A long time ago. Excuse me, I have to go." He slipped out the door before Duncan could say a word.

"Ask your teacher about him," Duncan told her. "I don't know the whole story." Which was a lie--but not entirely a lie. Methos never spoke of it. Cassandra hadn't spoken to him from the time she threw down the axe until last night.

Hannah unwrapped her coat from her sword, a fine, light saber. "Does it get easier?" she asked. "To live?"

"I don't know." He picked up his sword and moved through a warmup; she fell into step with him after a few moves. She was good--very good. She needed to build strength, which wouldn't be easy with her slight frame, but maneuverability would make up for a lot of that if she had a fighter's head.

Would it get easier, or would the years pile up like boulders in an avalanche? It depended on how you lived those years, he supposed. "It must be easier to meet people knowing that you can win a fight if it comes to that," Hannah said.

"Oh--well, you never *know* that. My last student won his first fight because his opponent fell through a rotten board. The guy was beating him hands-down--I was there--but Richie walked away with his head. But for all that, I think living with other people is the easy part. It's living with yourself that's the problem." He switched styles, breaking away in a series of slashes; he turned at the end and cocked his head, watching Hannah.

Hannah shrugged and performed an antique saber salute. Duncan smiled. "The problem is living with the hiding? The lies?" she asked.

"No. That's as routine as brushing your hair every morning." For those who would live, anyway. He remembered how hard it had become for Grace Chandel; she had been killed eight years ago. "You have a great power inherent in your being--the power to cheat death. You add to that with combat training and the other skills you'll inevitably pick up, skills far outstripping your apparent age. Compared to the abilities of an ordinary person, you'll be supernatural. And--you know the movie, right? With great power comes great responsibility."

"And then his uncle died."

"Right. But it's more than that," Duncan said, wondering how much of his soul he was willing to bare. But she looked like she was listening and understanding, so--"Do you know the Jacobite Revolution?"

She nodded. "1745."

"Ended by the Battle of Culloden and the systematic destruction of the Scottish people. I fought in that war. And when it was over, I killed--dozens. Hundreds, maybe, and not all of them soldiers. I told myself it was war, but it wasn't." He looked at her, and she didn't quite understand, but that was youth. "It's inevitable that you *will* make a mistake. A big one. At least one. A dishonorable beheading, or the murder of mortals--something will happen that will show you the evil in your soul. Because there's evil in everyone's soul. The question is what you do with it."

She nodded, glancing down at the floor but then meeting his eyes again. She didn't get it. She couldn't. But she was listening.

"Spar?" he asked.

She nodded, bringing her sword to the ready.

"I should warn you--Immortals draw blood." He darted in, intending to pink her arm, but she parried him--and *now* she was smiling.

*

Once Hannah had held life and death very light--but that was before she knew what death was. Before she died. Before she awoke to find her roommate dead on the dorm room floor at nineteen.

Before she ran from two challenges. Before she met Bridge, who told her what she was, and before he lost his head. Before she met Cassandra.

Hannah was twenty-seven years old, and still looked nineteen. Soon she would have to fake her own death, find a new name and watch her parents grieve. They already didn't understand why she wasn't looking for a husband and why she wouldn't speak of children.

Duncan said the secrets were the easy part. His crimes must weigh very heavy on his head.

Cassandra was sitting over a tarot spread when Hannah returned, leaning over the cards with her chin on her folded hands. Hannah glimpsed the Chariot, the Ace of Swords, and Death before Cassandra swept them away. "Good reading?" Hannah asked.

Cassandra tilted her head to Hannah. "The cards are never good or bad. They're possible paths, and humans are ever altering them."

Hannah sat on the bed and checked her blade before showering. No nicks; Duncan had barely touched her, instead watching as she moved through exercises. Cassandra shifted to the other bed, drawing up one knee, as Hannah rubbed down her blade with silk. "You're far better than I," Cassandra said.

"In the sword."

"You will live a long time. You must consider what you want to do with that time." The light glittered green in her enormous eyes. "Some falter," she said, "and use their strength to harm. Some stand tall and are warriors of light. You are who you decide to be."

"Duncan said that there is evil in all souls, but that it's our choice to listen or to fight. I *will* fight," Hannah said.

"Yes, I think you will. But you haven't yet been tested." Cassandra shifted, lounging on the bed. "Duncan is a good man, on the whole, though he has curious taste in friends."

Hannah sheathed her saber. "I met his lover. Duncan said that you knew him, a long time ago? He wouldn't tell me."

"His lover. *Methos,*" Cassandra growled, with an anger in her voice that Hannah had never heard before. "It was a long time ago. Three thousand years, and *he* was ancient even then."

Methos. It *sounded* ancient. It wasn't the name Duncan had given her, and she wondered why.

"I was born--found--in what's now Afghanistan," Cassandra said, "by a band of nomads living hand to mouth on the land. We were so poor--I didn't know what wealth *was*. We had only the clothes on our backs, the tents over our heads, the camels we rode and the goats we kept for food. I had never seen money--or *metal*. You can't imagine."

She got up abruptly and ran a glass of water in the little bathroom. "One day," she said, standing in the doorway, "four riders approached, wearing clothing the likes of which I had never seen. Armor, steel swords--I didn't know what they were. I thought they wanted food or water--but they didn't want anything. They killed every person in my tribe. Every one. Including me. That was my first death."

Cassandra closed her eyes and drank from the glass. Hannah was very still, wondering how awful this story could become. "And when I awoke in the horsemen's camp, their leader bent over me and told me that I was his slave. And that was Methos."

"How--?"

"Duncan says he's changed." Cassandra held up the glass, catching the last bright beams over the sun over the horizon. She turned the glass and split the beam into a rainbow on the wall. "And I suppose I believe him."

Hannah chewed her lower lip, picturing the thin, pleasant man she'd met earlier as this killing monster. This--must be what Duncan meant, that everyone had evil in them. Even the ones who didn't look it. "But how can someone change that much?"

"What other option is there? Duncan's a good man. I trust him," Cassandra said, returning to lie on the bed. "But Methos killed my father and all my kin and it was a year before I escaped the camp. And I will not forgive him that."

"You shouldn't," Hannah said softly.

"I think Duncan is happy as long as I don't kill him. Or at least--satisfied." Cassandra leaned back into the pillows.

"But what would satisfy you?"

Cassandra didn't answer.

*

The three of them were having dinner at Connor's flat--theoretically, anyway, since it was only Duncan and Connor so far. Methos wasn't answering his cell phone.

Duncan stood in Connor's memory room. Looking, not touching--this was his teacher's life in artifacts. Connor paced around the edges of the room, brushing his fingers over a book, a bow, a piece of tartan. He picked up a sword near the door. "Did I show this to you?" he asked Duncan.

A broadsword of angular design. Connor touched something on the pommel and two blades sprung forth from the hilt. It reminded him of Kronos' sword, with the barbs on the blade--what had happened to that sword? "Whose is it?"

"The Kurgan's. It was laying about in some evidence room all these years. It's worth more as a trophy than a curio, I think." Connor held it in both hands, looking over the blade. "This sword killed my teacher and more than a few of my friends."

"And you killed the man."

Connor twisted the sword in his hand. "It's an amazing piece of work." He twisted the hilt and it clicked free and slid off the blade. Connor then pulled the blade apart piece by piece, laying them out on the bench in the center of the room. "He carried it around in a guitar case."

"Hm. Sounds dangerous. What do you do if you're attacked on the street? Say stop, time out, I need to put my sword together?"

"Heh. Exactly. Too bad I never ambushed him on the street--it would have been easy." Connor smiled to himself and put the pieces of the sword back on the shelf. "Any guess as to where your boyfriend is?"

"Bookstore. Flea market. Singing bawdy songs on the street corner--beats me. I know his heart, not his hobbies," Duncan said.

"Speaking of." Connor crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow. "I've never known you to have trouble with the ladies."

"I never *have* had trouble with the ladies," if of course you didn't count Amanda troubles. But that wasn't what Connor meant.

"Tessa," Connor said, pointing his right index finger. "Verity," he said, pointing the left. He moved his fingers apart and looked from one to the other, then moved them farther apart still.

"Heterosexual male oppressor," Duncan said, and Connor laughed.

"If he weren't so skinny I might get it." Connor scowled then winked.

You should see him with his shirt off, Duncan thought, but didn't say it. "Well, if you got it, I might have to get jealous, so it's just as well, don't you think?"

"Duncan. " Connor stepped closer and rested his hands on Duncan's shoulders, his face falling into solemnity. "I will *never* fight you over a skinny-arsed, big-nosed, hard-drinking, elderly *man*."

Duncan grasped his forearms and nodded solemnly. "Thank you, brother. But we prefer 'well-aged'."

And then neither of them could stand it any more, and they burst out laughing.

The doorbell rang. Connor moved to answer it and Duncan followed; they both paused as they felt Presence. "That'll be him," Duncan said.

Connor picked up his sword from its spot on the wall, a precaution he'd drilled into Duncan while teaching him. "Was he sherry-casked or whiskey-casked?" he muttered.

"Pickled and buried underground like kim chee." Duncan let Connor answer the door.

It was, of course, Methos, standing well back from the door and munching on nuts. He offered the bag to Connor. Duncan marched past him and leaned on the door frame. "Where have you been?" he asked.

"Here, there, everywhere." Methos popped a few more nuts into his mouth. Duncan grabbed his lapel and pulled him inside; Methos smiled and held his hand to Duncan's mouth, feeding him a few nuts. Hazelnuts. His favorite.

"You should leave your phone on," Duncan said.

Methos shrugged. "If I died, you'd know it by the blackout. If I'm alive, I'm okay."

"Heh. It's true, you know," Connor said. "When I killed the Kurgan all of Manhattan went down for four hours."

Methos walked his fingers up Duncan's back. Duncan shoved him with his shoulder. "Did you ever run into the Kurgan?" Connor asked.

"Sure. It's a small world, especially when you mostly stick to Europe. I heard a rumor that there would be dinner?" Methos widened his eyes.

"He talks more if you feed him," Duncan told Connor. He stole Methos' hazelnuts and strolled back to the kitchen; he tossed a handful into the food processor and pulsed them twice, just enough to break them up a little, then sprinkled them over the prepared plates of salad. "Thanks, Adam, this was just what we needed."

Duncan set the plates on the dining table. Methos stood with his hands in his pockets and a genial expression on his face. "I talk most in bed with a beautiful woman. Have you heard from Amanda lately?"

"Oh, don't even start."

Connor returned his sword to the wall and sniffed at the breathing wine. He raised his eyebrows--good wine, then--and poured. Methos slipped around Duncan, bumping him with elbow and hip, and all three of them took a glass.

Methos sipped and smiled. "I hate fighting naked."

"'Scuse me?" Duncan said.

"Connor asked about the Kurgan. I hate fighting naked. Patience, MacLeod."

"The Kurgan surprised you in the bath?" Connor asked.

"Asleep. Rolled out of the bearskins and into a sword fight. It was so fast I didn't even have time to get my adrenaline up--like fighting in a dream. Best form I've ever had," he said, shaking his head.

Then he sat down and started eating his salad. He was doing it to make Duncan crazy, of that he was sure. "Nice dressing," Methos said.

"*Thanks,*" Duncan growled. "What happened next?"

"Kronos stabbed him in the back and then we all sat down for a nice bowl of mead." Methos made a face. Duncan wondered why he was saying Kronos' name *now.* "Normally Kronos had my back, but I think he liked the Kurgan's gear. Wanted to know where to get a pretty sword like that. Bastard. I followed him when he left, but his horse was faster."

Connor swirled his wine glass under his nose. "You would have saved me a lot of pain if you had a faster horse."

"Or if--yes. I know. So many things depend on little twists of fate. If a dog hadn't vomited on the steps of his father's house in Rome, Darius would never have made it past his first year as an Immortal. Marcus Clovius was the best fighter in Rome and he was beating the toga off Darius when he slipped." Methos held his fork upside down, watching the dressing drip off the greens. "Accident preserves the best and the worst."

"And the in-between."

"Them too," Methos said, one side of his mouth twitching upwards.

*

"Chatty today," Duncan said as they undressed for bed.

"Immortals gossip like old women given half the chance--haven't you noticed?"

"You don't."

"Do so." Methos kicked off his boots, striking Duncan in the ankle with the right one.

Duncan kicked it back. "Not to *me.*"

Methos wrinkled his nose and let his jeans drop. "No, you're too young to appreciate my age and eaaagh!" Methos cried as Duncan tackled him into bed. "And you eat too much red meat," he said, drawing his free thigh up around Duncan's waist.

Duncan growled and bit Methos' throat.

*

Drunk enough to feel it, sober enough to walk. Or fight. Connor'd learned from his mistakes.

He painted glue across the back of the photograph and carefully pasted it into his scrapbook. Duncan and Verity standing before his window, Verity behind Duncan with a hand on his shoulder, Duncan leaning into him looking content.

There was pain etched into his kinsman's face that hadn't been there twenty years ago. Immortals might not age, but they changed--oh, they changed. He wasn't the man he'd been when he died, nor yet the man he'd been with Heather, nor the man who'd been Duncan's teacher.

He wasn't as... carefree as he had been once. Or perhaps as happy.

He'd really thought it was the Gathering. He'd mourned his kinsman in the syrup-stretched seconds it took the Kurgan's head to hit the floor... and then, when it was over, when he was stripped to the metaphorical bone by the pure, ancient evil of the man, he'd noticed that he didn't feel any different otherwise. Still Immortal. Still himself. Still lacking the Prize, whatever it was. So his kinsman was still probably alive, and he was thrilled, and he was still in the game, and he was crushed.

And the girl decided he was mad and moved to Los Angeles. Typical.

Duncan wasn't talking about the past few years. Not yet. He'd called Connor about Darius, and the weird book, and then the Watchers and Hunters, and then Tessa--but then he stopped calling for a long, long time, and when Connor called him, it was politeness and evasion. Something had happened.

He wasn't getting it out of Duncan, so he'd have to get it out of the boyfriend. Heh. Wasn't that a puzzle, situation and man alike. Connor stared into his slick paper eyes, looking for some clue he'd missed before.

His gut--and he set great stock by his gut--told him Verity was a very dangerous man. But Duncan was no fool, and surely if he let Verity stand behind him, it was to watch his back and not snake him in the dark? The strength had to be what Duncan saw in the man. It certainly wasn't his looks.

He'd loved Tessa so strong and true--but the world turned under their feet and they had to keep up. Verity was dangerous, and maybe that's what Duncan wanted. Verity wouldn't die in a mugging or crumble from old age or perish in an accident like Duncan's boy Richie; he'd walked away from a quarrel with the Kurgan, which was something even Ramirez hadn't managed. Connor only barely had. Verity had been properly suspicious when Duncan was meeting with an Immortal woman they'd wronged, something Duncan himself hadn't managed.

And Verity had worked out how to get that bloody camera to print while Duncan was still paging through the owner's manual.

Overall Connor supposed he approved.

The glue was dry. He turned the pages backwards, through the noughts, the 90s, the 80s, the 70s, as the pictures blurred and the colors muddied and vanished. Lisa, 1972, at the party where he'd nearly asked her to marry him. 1929, Duncan and that ridiculous friend of his, Hugh Fitzcairn, come to see how Connor was doing after the crash. Harry Strathers and Kastagir in a posed portrait with a chair at the turn of the--turn of the *last* century, and he'd have to stop saying that soon.

The first photograph in the book was of Lady Penelope as a young girl, hair around her shoulders, doll in her arms, standing between Connor and a wild bouquet of lilies. He could smell the lilies still, warring with the rosewater scent of the girl, and see the pinks and yellows of the flowers clash with the vivid blue of her dress.

She'd been an old woman when he and Verity quarreled in her drawing room. Her tombstone in Green-Wood Cemetery had fallen in the storms of 2004. She was dust, and yet so recent that he had a *photograph.*

Immortals changed too. Duncan wasn't the same man he had been when *he* came to the salon; he was sadder and quieter and infinitely more powerful, older-looking for the same reason that Connor, more than a decade younger at his first death, had always looked older than Duncan. The life that they led left its mark. How much had Verity changed and folded and altered in the thousand of years he'd been alive? How had life and death battered and buffed him to leave his face young as a boy's and older than time?

He closed the scrapbook and took it back to the memory room. Fireproof, burglarproof, safe as houses, because sometimes he needed to look around and remind himself who he was. It kept him from changing too much.

He had no picture of Heather. It all came down to memory in the end.

*

The next day Hannah practiced stabbing Duncan.

It was necessary. Like most people, she'd never killed anyone before.

Entirely by coincidence, Connor and Methos both decided to hang around the dojo all day--Connor guiding Hannah's form, Methos sitting in the corner with the bastard sword taking the air beside him.

Duncan caught Cassandra staring at him several times.

Methos never looked back.

*

She knew now, in her heart of hearts, that killing was her art. Her vocation. It was the capstone of the strange pyramid of skill she'd been building since she met Cassandra and learned what she was.

It was power, freely given by Duncan, and it felt so very good to watch him tumble lifeless from her blade.

A spark crackled up the blood on her blade and grounded itself in her flesh; she jumped, and Connor's sword twitched over Duncan's body. Protecting him in case the power drove her wild.

She'd never--never--had to have anyone protected against *her.* She took a deep breath and a long walk, pacing the edge of the room while wiping the blood from her blade.

Connor stood over Duncan. Cassandra sat in a chair in the corner, watching Hannah. And Peter--Methos--sat cross-legged on the radiator cover in the opposite corner, reading a flimsy paperback with the cover bent back, and when she passed him she walked into his outstretched boot.

He left a dusty footprint on her shirt when he folded back up. His huge, medieval sword leaned against the wall beside him. "Yes, we are afraid of you," Methos said softly. "Any Immortal with sense is afraid of another. Especially when swords are bared. Especially when the color is so high in your cheeks from the fight."

She looked down at her sword. She reversed her grip, pointing it to the floor, and Methos smiled. "You sleep with him every night," she said. "Are you afraid then?"

"No, but I'm older and--" He stopped, looking over her shoulder, and Hannah suddenly smelled Cassandra's perfume and felt her presence behind her. "Older," Methos finished.

"Did you have something to teach her?" Cassandra asked.

"No," Methos said.

"Why are you here, if not to teach? Show her how to call lightnings from the sky, *teacher,* " she said.

Methos drew his legs up and shook his head.

"Show her how to blow down buildings with your breath. Show her how to summon the storm. How to see men's souls. How to talk to the gods. Show her everything you showed me, *teacher.*"

Cassandra was angry--so angry--and Methos was shrinking under her anger. "I cannot," he said.

"You never could. Such a trickster, *Methos.* Such a liar." She took Hannah's shoulders and drew her away. Hannah could feel the anger shaking in her fingertips, but also the triumph in the way she walked.

"Cassandra!"

Cassandra looked over her shoulder, as did Hannah.

"We're none of us meant to be gods," he said, looking pale and small with his knees drawn up. Looking at Cassandra unflinchingly. "Nor slaves."

And then, as Cassandra's fingers dug into Hannah's skin and Hannah wondered what to make of it all, the shiver down her spine told her Duncan was waking up.

"I think this lesson is over," Connor said, dropping into the quiet like a cast-iron lid on a frying pan.

*

Duncan wanted steak, so they were walking to a steakhouse.

Methos was thinking about Cassandra's words. It was Ramirez who could call the storm, and the Kurgan who knocked down walls with his voice--and Connor had both their Quickenings, and wasn't that interesting--but Methos had talked to the gods, once. He'd stopped as they stopped talking back.

He could still draw lightnings from the sky and the earth. He could never see men's souls. He was trying to remember just what the *hell* he'd told Cassandra back in the day.

And Connor was taking Methos' arm with an unholy gleam in his eye. Methos focused on Duncan, wobbling slightly ahead of them. "You answer to Methos," Connor said.

"Well."

"She called you that, that woman with which you have so much history."

"Yes." Connor's hand was like iron. He was pressed close as a lover, much too intimate for this day and age.

"Methos is dead, long live Methos?"

"Yes."

"I will know," Connor said.

"I'm the eighth Methos," Methos said. "The Methos who died in Seacouver was the ninth. My teacher was the seventh."

"So it's a title."

"No, a name." Methos shook his arm free, shooting Connor a pained look. "Generally passed down from teacher to student. I was my teacher's favorite student, so I was the one he passed his name to when he died."

"When he gave you his quickening," Connor said, the smart lad.

"Yes."

"So this other Methos... was he your brother?"

"No." Methos stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to remember gossip thousands of years old. "My teacher had dozens of students, but there's only, I think, three others that survived long enough to be interesting. One was Gilor, teacher of Aganesthes and Harmas. The other was Aursa, teacher of Darius--and the Kurgan."

Aursa, Darius, and the nameless Kurgan. The three of them were the strongest and cruelest Immortals that had ever walked the earth. They had hunted Caspian for fun. *Caspian.* They caught him and tortured him and let him go again, just as Methos and Kronos had done to hapless Roman soldiers not so long before. Methos had been on the verge of digging up Kronos to fight back--better the devil you knew than the devil with the blood of other devils dripping from its muzzle--when Darius killed Croenthos of the white magic and Kurgan took the head of Aursa.

Connor grumbled under his breath. "Why does everything come back to that fiend?"

"Because he was an *ancient* fiend, and there aren't that many of us." Few ancients and fewer still fiends. The truly evil tended to be weeded out by the truly heroic.

Methos wondered briefly if that made him not so fiendish or the silver-tongued worst of all. "The third student of the old Methos," he said, "was Croenthos of the white magic. He was the one who gave Darius his goodness. The ninth Methos, the dead one, was his student."

And more than that, even--as Harmas was the Champion of Christ's first millennium, Croenthos was Champion three thousand years before His birth. If he'd believed Duncan sooner, gotten his mind out of the twentieth century and back to his own childhood, he'd have remembered the stories and known how to help.

But he hadn't, and he didn't, and Richie was dead.

And he was speaking of the other Methos, not himself. "Croenthos named his student Methos. He thought I was dead and he thought the name should continue. He actually apologized for it before he died--but anyway. I never met the lad until right before *he* died, though I heard stories." Methos shrugged. "It's just a name, like John or Marcus."

"I see."

Methos watched Duncan bounce off a street sign, and wondered idly where they were going.

"Heh," Connor said. "So how old are you?"

The $5,000 question. "Old enough to buy a beer in most counties."

Connor took his arm again. "Are you the Methos of five millennia?"

Methos didn't answer; just remembered his teacher, that small, flat-faced little man, and his first student, and his last student, and the heart-ripping terror of the Paris spring, and the sublime taste of Duncan's coffee after a fight, and the garish color of the Parthenon when it was new; he knew his face would speak for him.

"Well," Connor said, "how about that."

"We'd better grab Mac before he falls down a well," Methos said, and caught up to Duncan.

*

Hannah awoke in the middle of the night and found Cassandra seated by the window, staring out over the street.

"Teacher," Hannah said.

Cassandra turned, casting her face into shadow. "It's been a long time since my last student," she said. "Phoebe. She died after a year."

"It's a hard life for us. I survived to meet you only by luck." Hannah sat up, sleep banished by the tone in her teacher's voice.

"Elizabeth before her was a nun and lasted five. I'm not--strong," Cassandra said. "But it took--all my pride--to bring you to Duncan, and *he* is here..."

Hannah slid out of bed and crossed the room in a few steps. She knelt beside Cassandra, taking her hand.

"Have I served you well?" Cassandra asked.

"You have," Hannah answered with all her heart.

"He will not harm you," Cassandra said. There was an edge to her voice that made it a promise.

*

Hannah awoke in the middle of the night and found Cassandra seated by the window, staring out over the street. She looked troubled--but then troubled was how she looked this past week, for the first time in the five years Hannah had known her.

What could trouble a woman who'd seen three millennia? She knew the answer--a man who'd seen three millennia and more. Hannah had seen Cassandra look challengers in the eye and talk them into walking on, or, in the case of one old, evil, Immortal child, into cutting his own head off. Cassandra had such terrifying depths of power... What power did Methos have that Cassandra was still afraid of him?

"Teacher?" Hannah hugged her knees.

Cassandra turned, casting her face into shadow. Her enormous eyes glittered occasionally in the passing light of the cars. "It's been a long time since my last student," she said. "Phoebe. She died after a year."

"It's a hard life for Immortals," Hannah said. She had survived the yeears before Cassandra only by luck.

"Elizabeth before her was a nun and lasted five," Cassandra said. "I knew I needed to change this. But it took all my--pride--to bring you to Duncan, and *he* is here, striking at my heart again..."

Hannah slid out of bed and crossed the room in a few steps. She knelt beside Cassandra, taking her hand. Hannah was alive, she was here, standing beside her teacher.

"Have I served you well?" Cassandra asked.

"You have," Hannah answered with all her heart.

Cassandra leaned down and cupped her face, looking deep into her eyes. Hannah could feel the magic in her, feel it humming under her skin like the electric touch of her Quickening.

The lines of worry slipped from Cassandra's face and she leaned down and kissed Hannah's forehead.

*

Coffee and cream for Duncan. Coffee black and unsweetened for herself.

"You look tired," Duncan said. He was leaning on the railing of the balcony outside Connor's dojo, leaving the single chair to her.

"I am tired." Nightmares: Methos laying hands on her student, painting her face with blue clay, torturing her shrieking and mad. That disgusting bootprint on Hannah's shirt yesterday set it off, and her mind wasn't eased until she read the child's fate. Hannah would not die at Methos' hand.

But there were ways of harm that didn't end in death. She knew this intimately. "I slept very ill," she said, looking up at Duncan.

Duncan glanced at her and flinched away. "He has changed, Cassandra."

She thought of Methos sitting by her while she was caged. *It wasn't all bad when we were together.* And it wasn't; beast that he was, he was at least a *familiar* beast, and his attentions left her unscarred and whole. Unlike Caspian. Unlike Kronos. Unlike even the idiot Silas, sometimes. She felt safe with Methos, knowing that it wouldn't get any *worse.*

And then, of course, he gave her to Kronos, with Caspian next in line. Methos was a deceiver and a betrayer and *that* did not change with time or the tides. "How can you say he's changed when you don't know how he was, Duncan?" She blew on her coffee. "But I didn't come here to argue. I came to ask after our home."

The woods of Loch Shiel, a thousand years her home. Her own country, every inch blanketed by her magic and walked by her own two feet, and Duncan her promised child, guarded by her hand. She had not been back since Duncan's first death.

Duncan rubbed the back of his hand over the scruff of his chin. "Someone saw a monster in Loch Shiel not so long ago. Rachel says she hasn't had an empty room since. She's thinking of raising her rates."

"Rachel?"

"Rachel MacLeod--a kinswoman, of a sort."

"Of course there's a monster in the loch. It's a child of wind and water--all seas have them." Witchy creatures, full of magic. The storms rushed in when Nessie raised its head and looked at her; its eyes burned with fire and the thunder said *Loch Shiel* when she begged its favor.

"But that can't be real. A creature living so long without being caught--" His mouth snapped shut, and he looked down at his hands. "Well, I suppose it might happen."

She smiled to herself. What were they themselves if not magic, the children of earth and wind?--and Duncan knew that.

He was still so young.

*

Methos strolled upstairs to the dojo with "Good Omens" in one hand and a giant blueberry scone in the other. He was running through books like water this week; he'd have to visit the bookstore soon.

There were two Immortal signatures there already, hidden from his sight; that would be Duncan and Connor at their warmup. Methos stretched out on the radiator by the door, kicked off his shoes and opened his book.

He'd finished the scone and just gotten to the birth of the Antichrist when he felt another Presence. He set down his book and paid attention: First there was the sound of the elevator door, then the light, soft footsteps of a woman. Probably Hannah--but you could never be sure.

But it was Hannah. She pushed open the door of the dojo and walked halfway into the sun-lit dojo. The windows faced north, leaving several large areas shadowed in the morning light; one of those areas contained Methos, and she wasn't even *looking.* "Hello?" she called out.

This would never do. He slipped silently off the radiator and crept cat-footed up behind her. He gave her no warning until the last moment, with the slide of his sword from the sheath--but then it was too late, and his hand stayed her saber and his blade was at her throat. "Always check the dark corners," he said.

She was stiff in his grasp, as well she should be. "Another lesson?" she asked.

"It's what you're here for." Under some teachers, the first mistake would be the last. The image crossed his mind, as it always did--blood coursing over his hands, the sweet sparkle of the Quickening--but he wasn't that man any more, so he settled for a lecture. "Immortals are untrustworthy bastards. I was trying to tell you that yesterday..."

He looked up as Duncan emerged from the door at the opposite side of the room.

"NO!"

*

"NO!" Cassandra screamed, piercing and panicked in a way that Hannah had *never* heard, and her hand was raised and there was fire!--a fireball engulfing her but not burning her, not even scorching her hair.

But Methos behind her made a terrible choked sound and she could see him--

\--smell him--

*

Burning flesh had a smell that Duncan always forgot, because you forget dreadful things. As he saw the fire he was moving, grabbing the extinguisher--because he couldn't grab Cassandra, he didn't have the right--turning it on Methos, but it did nothing until Cassandra lowered her hand, and then the fire stopped all at once.

Cassandra drained and white, fists clenched at her side.

Hannah with both hands pressed to her mouth.

Methos' sword dropped unblemished on the floor.

Methos black and charred as firewood, arms drawn up like a boxer, face unrecognizable.

Duncan scooped Methos up into his arms and Hannah cried out, because he was stiff and he crackled under Duncan's fingers. Duncan ran him to the showers--no, the tub, cold water--and his body was hot, scorching his skin.

But he was Methos. He'd be fine.

*

"What did he do to you?" Cassandra cried. She touched Hannah's neck, drawing her hand back sticky with blood. Hannah's own blood. She shivered at the sight of it.

But it was innocent. Immortals drew blood on the practice floor. "He did nothing," Hannah said, shaking her head. "It was a lesson."

"Lesson! I could hear his thoughts from outside, plain as a vulture in a English garden. He wanted your blood, girl."

Hannah could only shake her head. Cassandra embraced her tightly.

"I didn't know you could do that," Hannah said. Cassandra was holding her so tightly that all she could see was the exposed curve of her neck.

"Neither did I," Cassandra whispered.

"You're so damned strong!" She could only hope she could live to the age where she could shoot fire from her fingers on instinct alone.

Cassandra lifted her head. "I am," she said, and loosened her arms from Hannah. She stroked Hannah's hair and looked at the shower room door.

She took Hannah's arm, clasping it warmly by her side, and they both crossed the room together.

In the shower room Duncan crouched over a free-standing tub. One blackened foot stuck out of the water, but most of Methos was submerged. "Please, Cassandra," Duncan said.

"You asked me for mercy once," she said.

Duncan leaned forward and one fingertip dipped into the water, sending ripples across the sooty mirror of its surface. "I'm asking again. Cassandra, I'm only afraid of one person in this room, and it's not him."

Cassandra lifted her chin. Hannah looked into the water and saw it swirling, crackling under the surface with Quuickening power.

"Methos is a deceiver. I am exactly what I seem to be."

"Yes, I know," Duncan said.

"You're being a fool."

There was a ripple in the water, and it didn't come from Duncan. There was a bubble, a twitch, and then Methos sat bolt upright, dragging air into his lungs with a heaving gasp, and ripped the black char from his face with one swipe of his curled fingers. The skin beneath was red-purple like a newborn, free of hair and texture.

Methos thrashed in the water, obviously struggling for breath, and then fell back again. Duncan gently pushed his exposed foot into the water as well. "I've been a fool before, and it's brought me more joy than pain," he said.

Cassandra held Hannah's hand tight to her body. "Mercy," she said.

"Aye."

"How far he's fallen," Cassandra said, "from king of the known world to a corpse in a tub. He can't even use his own name any more. He's nothing."

Duncan crouched, watching her, spanning the rim of the tub. The water roiled, murky and electric.

She took a deep breath and let it out, and Hannah knew it was over. "Call me if he murders you in your bed," Cassandra said.

Duncan dropped his head. "I will."

Hannah squeezed Cassandra's hand as they left the dojo. "Why?" she asked Cassandra. "You hate him."

"Hm. I hated him to be sure--but now his brothers are dead, he has no more power. He's already dead." And Cassandra smiled down at her, serene once more, untroubled. "And I'm not."

Hannah smiled back. "Buy you a drink?"

"Oh, yes."

*

*The quality of mercy is not strain'd,* he thought, because in truth no-one put it plainer than the Bard. It dropped from Cassandra like rain from the heavens, and he could only see if it fell on fertile soil.

Duncan knelt, watching the small crackles of power dancing over the surface of the water. Methos was healing so quickly he couldn't believe it--alive once already, after an injury that must have cooked him to the bone.

Methos surged back out of the water, fastening both hands on Duncan's. His skin was a milder pink now, not the violent red it had been; his face was fully formed, if naked-seeming in its lack of hair. He coughed up water as Duncan chafed the char from his hands.

"Kill her," Methos gasped, hoarse as a frog. He flung himself over the side of the tub.

"Methos!" Duncan grabbed him but got only a handful of cracked black skin. Methos clawed his way over the floor on what couldn't be anything more than will--he was more a scarecrow wrapped in burnt cloth than a man. "Methos!" Duncan cried, following him into the dojo.

Where Methos had collapsed, panting for breath. Duncan could see the arteries pumping blood over his wrecked frame. The new skin rose inch by inch under the damage, so fast that Duncan could almost see it work.

"It's over, Methos," he said.

Methos turned his head, fixing one bloodshot eye on him. He didn't speak, but Duncan knew what he would say--what he always said: *It's never over between Immortals.*

Never over until one was dead. Cassandra felt it was over; he was sure he could get Methos to see it the same way.

Methos closed his eyes. Duncan touched his cheek and Methos twitched violently until he backed away.

He skinned his shirt off and slipped it gently under Methos' head. "I'll be here," he said, but Methos didn't reply.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Note on tarot: I am a rank amateur, which is why this isn't in the story proper and won't be posted to my site. I wrote this out as a way to focus my thoughts on Cassandra and the story in general.
> 
> The tarot reading I was envisioning was the basic Celtic cross. Hannah saw the central crossed cards and the outcome card. Death, representing the current problem: Methos, not just in his guise as death on a horse but also as the necessity and inevitability of change. It crosses the Chariot, which is in the position of Cassandra's situation and represents Cassandra's struggle with herself. The Chariot is head vs heart, law vs instinct.
> 
> In the distant past position was the Ten of Swords: terrible pain, despair; losing her family and her entire sense of what the world was. In the recent past was the King of Swords: Duncan. A controlled man, a lawful man, someone fair and balanced, like a judge. This combines with the Chariot to show the guiding effect he had on her in the recent (well, recent for Immortals) past when he asked her not to kill Methos. Crowning position is the Hermit reversed, showing Cassandra's isolation in Donan Woods. She's been apart from people--to her detriment--for a very long time. Near future is the Five of Wands--conflict and the need to assert oneself. The suit ties this to Hannah, appropriately, since she's the catalyst for the upcoming conflict.
> 
> The previous cards are arrayed in a circle, showing the intertwined knot of the problem. The following are arrayed in a line, separately, a masculine (swordlike!) array showing a more linear approach to the same question.
> 
> Questioner position, representing the way Cassandra sees herself: the Queen of Swords, a strong-willed, intelligent, perceptive woman. Influences and family position: the Page of Wands. This is Hannah, a young person filled with new hope and opportunity. Hopes and fears position: The Devil, the card of evil, representing the Horsemen and all that entails. Cassandra is terrified that the past is *not* dead. But then the result card, showing the possible culmination of the situation, is the Ace of Swords, representing triumph over adversity. It shows that she *can* break free and start a new life.
> 
> Overall this is a very hopeful layout, full of change and rebirth, though it has a backdrop of pain and fear. Swords, appropriately for Highlander, is the suit that generally deals with trauma and recovery--the thousand cuts of life.


End file.
